A cry for help …

I’m being a wastrel today.  With a temp of 44º, 25mph winds, and 68% humidity it feels achy cold outside and that’s sufficient to keep me in by the fire, but only because I’m a delicate prairie flower.  I’m just over here trying some therapy for the squirrel party in my head (see Make it shtahp!) by playing nonstop smooth jazz/funky chill-out/trance through my headphones. Success rate after three four six hours = zero%.  Within seconds of removing the input we’re back to the Never-Ending Wurlitzer Dream Concert, and by dream I mean a nightmare I can’t seem to wake from.  No effect is spared, no stop unpulled, no member of the orchestra left partless.  You got your strings, your winds, your muted brass, percussion section, and the random harp or two, did I forget anybody!  It all sounds the way this freak of nature looks and could end up being the tipping point between my continuing to function as a viable member of society or becoming fully unhinged.

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Now I’m employing reverse psychology  “Gosh, I hope the music never stops, it’s so cool to have my own soundtrack, and straight out of my parents’ playlist, bonus!  After all this free entertainment what if I would wake up to silence some morning, oh noooooo!” but nobody is deceived.  This is not our first goat-ropin’.

So the floor’s open, boys and girls, keep those cards and letters coming in.  If you know a proven, or even rumored, method for annihilating an earworm, reach out and touch this one at your first opportunity.  I’m sure I could devise an appropriate and destined-to-be-cherished door prize for the first blogosphere comrade to share a remedy with the juju for this beast.  Please hurry, we’re looking at everything from The Lawrence Welk Show to full-on jazz, every note delivered at dirge speed and with all the intrigue of a stranger’s black & white photos — if you’re not in them and nobody’s having sex, meh.

Desperately yours and TIA,

Wurly Gurl

 

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